The Days After
by whovianonakayak
Summary: As time runs out and Moriarty is loose once again, will Sherlock find the criminal or will his Mind Palace collapse, taking him with it. Rated T for slight language.
1. Chapter 1

The Days After is a _Sherlock_ fanfiction. I have no rights to the show, this is and independent work.

Chapter 1

"Take a breath."

"No! He can't be alive!"

"Neither can you," John replied. "But here you are.

Sherlock paced between the two chairs. The sun had just begun to rise. Rays of light peaked through the curtains with dust specks dancing in the air.

"That's different," said the consulting detective. "I didn't put a gun in my mouth halfway through a conversation."

John Watson stared down at the carpet, amazed a trench had not been carved where his friend tread. All morning, he and Sherlock had thought over the roof scene again and again. winced every time the solid _crack_ echoed in his ears and blood splatters burned behind his eyes. This was nothing new, of course. John still had to focus on his friend, making sure Sherlock really was back and not just a trick of the mind. The detective's return had been a relief mixed with the stench of a foul trick. Time spent mourning seemed to be time wasted.

The doctor was pulled back to Earth, as Sherlock released a sigh and collapsed on the couch. Hands pressed under his chin, John knew he may not get a response from the man for many hours. This seemed like a good time to call Mary. His wife was alone and pregnant. She was safe at home, of course, but John still worried. Their relationship had just begun to be repaired, after some incidents and lies John would rather not talk about.

"Hello?" Answered the voice on the other line.

"Hey, You."

The conversation consisted of the usual seeing how each other was doing, exchanging "I love you"s, and kissing goodbye.

"So Mary's good?"

John jumped. The silent figure on the couch remained motionless.

"I thought you were in your Mind Palace," John explained.

"He's in there," said Sherlock in a solemn fashion. "Not worth it."

"Moriarty?"

No reply. One wasn't needed. The echoing silence was enough.

John needed to put some pep in Sherlock's step and break the silence.

"I'm going to grab some lunch," John heard himself say. "Want anything?"

Long pause.

"No. I've got to figure some stuff out."

Nothing else. Turning slowly, John opened the door. As he stepped through the doorway, glances were shot toward Sherlock. No response. The tall, pale man had done this before, but John knew this time was different. Moriarty was no bank robber or murderer. As far as was concerned, Jim Moriarty _was_ the devil and a certain serpent had to be crushed.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later, John returned to the flat with a takeout bag containing a sandwich. John was careful when opening the door. Who knew what kind of fit, discovery, or spasm Sherlock could be having. Silence. The creak of the door was loud in Watson's ear. He stepped into the room to find Sherlock on the couch. He had not moved a muscle in five hours.

"I brought you some supper," John called into the living room from the kitchen. The sandwich was placed in the fridge beside the jar of thumbs. After a couple years, John didn't jump or squirm at the appendages.

"Sherlock?" John called louder. It was no use. He walked into the living room and up to the couch. The light was now draining from the room and John couldn't tell if it was the glare from streetlights that was making his friend so pale, or if the man was that white.

"Yoo! Hoo!" No response. "Sherlock!" Nope. _Clap!_ Nothing.

With a better look, John could tell that Sherlock's chest was slowly rising and falling, but his eyes were open, as if in a trance. Even from an army doctor and best friend's point of view, Sherlock Holmes was a mystery. All he could do was pull the blanket from the top of the couch and drape it over his awake-looking friend.

The next morning, John opened the door using his key and knocked on the doorway. Stepping in, he could see that the blanket had been draped back over the couch, meaning at some point, Sherlock had gotten up and moved.

"Hey!" John called into the silent apartment. "It's me!"

Tea was prepared and John walked over to the fridge to get milk. Laying right where he left it was the sandwich. There was nothing else to eat in the apartment, unless Sherlock helped himself to some thumbs, but they were all there.

Where was he?

John peeked into Sherlock's bedroom, the bathroom, and livingroom. No sign of the detective.

"Not again," though John, as he thought up all the places they'd found Sherlock. Bart's. He'd start his search there, at the hospital.

Stepping out of the cab, scanned the street. Molly may have known where the lost man had ended up.

In the cab, John had called Inspector Greg, Anderson, Mary, and that weird guy, Billy, who seemed to just follow Sherlock around. No one had seen . Usually, when the man worked on a case, you could find him on the couch, in his Mind Palace. Other than there, Sherlock could be anywhere. And in the search for Moriarty, the man would go to Antarctica to assure Jim was really dead.

The elevator to the lab had always been too slow. When the door dinged, John stepped out into Molly's place of work. Scientific equipment John couldn't begin to understand covered all the counterspace.

It was almost 9:00am. Molly was supposed to be there. Just then, John could have sworn he heard a voice. Marching through the glass doors into a conference room, the doctor saw Molly.

"Molly, have you seen-" John was cut short, as he saw the look of disapproval and shock on her face. Moving around a conference table, John could see him now. Leaning up against a wall, Sherlock sat there bouncing a rubber ball against one of the desks.

"There you are!" John exclaimed, then confusion filled his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock wasn't looking up. He sat there with his eyes fixed on the floor and head tucked low. It was almost as if he was unresponsive and awake...like the night before.

"What's wrong with him?" John asked Molly, hoping she would have some answers.

She just shrugged her shoulders.

"I came in and turned on the lights," she began, "That's when I heard the bouncing."

John knew she was talking about the rubber ball. The man had only seen Sherlock bounce that ball in that manner once...right before the roof. John pushed that memory aside.

Molly continued, "He hasn't said anything. Hasn't looked up once. His eyes are dilated like a mad man's."

Molly was right. With further examination, John could see Sherlock's pupils. He had to try something to help his friend. John snatched the rubber ball from midair, expecting a reaction. Some sign of annoyance in John ruining Sherlock's pattern, but no such luck. Sherlock's hand continued to make the throwing and catching motions without a flaw or interruption.

"Creepy," squeaked Molly. She was right. John's friend had to be in some serious concentration to ignore the lack of rubber ball, Molly's talking, and John's hand waving in front of his face.

"Should we move him?" John asked.

"I don't see why not."

With both Molly and John grabbing an arm, they were able to hoist Sherlock into a chair. Because of the holding back of his bouncing arm, Sherlock seemed to shake out of whatever trance he was in. A chorus of "What happened?" echoed around the lab.

The detective knew that they wouldn't believe him.


	3. Chapter 3

It all started the night his plane turned around and flew back toward John. Shock and confusion was replaced by more shock and confusion, as Jim's face flashed on the in-flight movie screen. Don't get him wrong, Sherlock was so grateful to go back home to his family, even though they had only been separated by exile for four minutes. He could see John and Mary be happy together and watch the future baby grow up. No more assigned missions. He could pick his own cases. Most of all, the weight of loneliness had been lifted off his shoulders.

The following morning, however, dread, fear, and anger filled Sherlock to the brim. This man had hurt John and killed countless others. To an extent, Sherlock hated how in Jim's scheme of things, Sherlock was always going to get John hurt.

Sherlock had explained in the briefest terms to John why he couldn't go in his mind palace. Pure fear of the man who was inside, stored away. Knowing it was a bad idea and stuck with not the slightest clue of what would happen, Sherlock entered his mind palace.

The set of winding stairs led down to a room even Sherlock was too scared to go. He had put Moriarty in there, deleting the room, but the spider kept coming back. When Sherlock had gone into shock, while shot, the thin wall protecting him from the monster broke. Pure evil oozed out and encouraged Sherlock to live. John and hope kept him alive and he almost lost both.

No. He had to focus. Where would a clue to finding a psychopath be? Unfortunately, Sherlock knew the answer.

Down the stairs he went, taking unsteady breaths. He entered the cage. A circular padded room sat bear with a single set of chains limp on the floor. Sherlock froze in shock.

Moriarty had escaped.

Not only in the real world, but in the Mind Palace, too. Jim could be shaping Sherlock's thoughts, placing panic and terror in place of other things. Sherlock realized he could never search his whole Mind Palace. Even when deleting, piles upon piles of everything stacked up. Finding Jim would be like finding a mouse in downtown New York City. Sherlock was unresponsive for the rest of the day. All concentration and attention were needed to hunt down the rogue. Libraries and observatories and forests were searched high and low. Honestly, Sherlock didn't know how he would capture Jim once he saw him, but that didn't matter at the moment. He just had to be found.

Once the lights dimmed in the forests, Sherlock knew it was night outside his head. He was alone. The detective was suddenly aware that John wasn't there. He couldn't hear . This was no place to be-not at a time like this. Jim Moriarty fed off of _alone._

Somehow, Sherlock found his way to Molly's lab. Waiting for her to show up for work, he fell into a rubber ball bouncing routine.

Hours later and no Moriarty in sight. Sherlock had found clues like Jim had left before: bread crumbs and a foot print. They were false trails. Maniacal laughter could be heard in one direction, but change in an instant. You could be chasing the noise north, but then in less than a second, it could be coming from the south.

Once again, Sherlock found himself at the spiral stairs. The laugh echoed, but not from down...from above. Sherlock's happy memories. His loves, hopes, dreams. They all lied on the above floors. Almost sure the direction of the voice wouldn't change, Holmes bounded up the stairs. He ran past grand oak doors and silver gates, but he knew he had to keep moving up. Suddenly, the stairs stopped. The last door. It was obvious what stood behind the golden threshold.

The haunting laugh came from inside the doors. In his mind, Sherlock could feel happiness draining and fear rising. Slowly, he pressed his palm against the golden doors…


	4. Chapter 4

Like being yanked up by the shirt collar, Sherlock felt a lurch and landed in a spinning chair. Molly to his left and John to his right.

Where had Moriarty gone? He could be raging havoc in Sherlock's mind. By the looks on his friends' faces, they had no idea what had happened.

"Sherlock?" John seemed to ask, but he couldn't be sure. The sound rippled like a wave and blurred into nothing.

"William?" That sounded weird. He hadn't been called that in-

Argh! Sherlock's face spun to the side. The slight sensation of a sting feeling more like an aftertaste.

Molly. Of course. His eyes begun to focus and assess the situation. This looked like an interrogation.

Molly asked the first question: "Why are you in the conference room?"

"I wasn't aware that I was."

"What?" John, now. "So you just fog-walked your way across town and somehow broke into the lab?"

"I guess so."

"Well then," John said, seeming unsatisfied. "Why here?"

"Less lonely here." Molly seemed to think over that.

"But you were alone." Concern filled her face.

"No," Sherlock explained. "I woke up and you two were here. Not alone."

It seemed like a strange answer, but it worked. John's shoulders seemed to relax and Molly stuck her hands in her labcoat pockets.

"Well I guess…" John faded out. Trying to make out what he said, Sherlock shook his head. It felt like fog was filling his brain and clogging his senses. His friends faded and were replaced by a golden room.

It was beautiful. Not necessarily the room itself, but what it held. John and Mary stood waving, Mary holding a bundle of blanket in her arms. Molly, Greg, and Anderson stood behind them. His mum and dad were on the side, and even Mycroft was there, crossing his arms with a smirk. Sherlock knew why Redbeard wasn't there. Sherlock had made him his own special space.

A shudder shook the room. Turning around, Sherlock saw Moriarty. The face of Death stood, leaning against the wall. A chuckle resonated from the man.

"Hi there, Sherl," teased Jim, "Isn't this a beautiful room?" He gestured to all of Sherlock's friends and family.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed.

"What do you mean?" Jim said this with a hurt expression in his eyes, but it soon turned to a vicious smirk. "I broke out of my cell. I came back. There's no escaping me, if you can't find me."

"But I have found you," returned Sherlock.

"Have you? You can't find me. I'm a spider, a speck. Even in a cell, your life can crumble by my hand."

With a sweeping motion by Jim's hand, the surrounding friends and family members dissolved. Sherlock glared at the criminal.

"When will you stop? You've killed me, destroyed me, hurt John, hurt everyone? WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

Sherlock screamed that with his eyes clamped shut. When his eyes opened, Jim was gone. Lost again. John and the others had not returned. Struck with despair, helplessness, hopelessness, and distress, Sherlock fell to the ground and wept.

What could he do? Moriarty made it clear in the years passed that Sherlock's life was at his mercy. The stunned man stayed on the hard floor, crying and shaking.

After minutes, maybe hours(it was hard to tell), the gold room faded and Sherlock found himself sitting up in the chair. Wet tears stuck to his face. His eyes blinked, trying to focus. Across from him, John sat, staring. His friend's face reflected confusion and concern.

"What the _Hell_ was that?!" John was trying to control obvious anger and fear. "Do you always just 'fade out'?"

Sherlock shrugged, still trying to decipher reality from Mind Palace.

"How long has it been?" Sherlock asked, voice croaking.

"Three hours," John replied. "You missed lunch."

John slid an apple toward Sherlock, who turned the fruit around on the table by the stem.

"What did you hear?" he asked, not making eye contact with John.

"Not much. Groans and tears."

"I'm sorry."

"What for? What happened?"

Sherlock thought over his answer for a few seconds. John leaned in to hear him better.

"I-I saw him."

"_Him?_ You mean…"

"Moriarty, yes. He got out. Ran."

"Ran where?" John asked, concerned.

"My mind," Sherlock stated, still not making eye contact. "I got him, but he disappeared again.'

John seemed confused at this. He looked away, toward the window, where he saw Molly at her work station. She was distracted from them.

"Are you okay?" He asked Sherlock, leaning in.

"What do you call okay?"

John glared at Sherlock's vague answer. He revised his question:

"Are you hurt?"

Sherlock appeared as if he would once again question John's words, but he decided against it.

"No."

"Good." John seemed to relax a little. He wanted to believe his friend and know Sherlock was alright, but something in his mind(maybe instinct?) told him to keep an eye out for his friend. John Wouldn't let Sherlock get hurt again. He couldn't.

He slapped his knees and hoisted himself up onto his feet to end the conversation.

"Let's get out of here," he said. "We can go get some real food."

"No," Sherlock said without much thought. "No time for food. We have work to do."

John showed a look of concern for his friend, but knew better than to argue at a time like this. he watched as Sherlock stood rather quickly and swayed a little. John reached out quickly to support his friend, but Sherlock was already stable.

"The game is on," Sherlock declared, and he was off.

John followed, stopping in the door to take one last look at the place where his friend sat hurt, just moments before. The uneaten apple haunted him and stayed in the back of his mind as he turned back around, shut the door, and left the red fruit to watch the disintegration of the detective.


	5. Chapter 5

Standing in Lestrade's office, John felt the familiar awkward situation. Donovan stood in the doorway, ready to insult John's friend, Anderson stood in the corner with a newfound respect for Sherlock(after the man thought he was the reason Sherlock committed "suicide"), and Lestrade sat at his desk in anticipation for what Sherlock had to say. This time, though, it was Sherlock who was asking the questions.

"How did Moriarty get on all the screens?" Sherlock asked, pacing back and forth.

"We don't know," Greg said grumpily, hoping, himself, that Sherlock knew.

"WHY NOT?" Sherlock boomed. He threw his arms up in frustration.

No one flinched at the sudden outburst. They all understood Sherlock's anger and wanted a break.

"Why, in this whole country, can no one trace a signal?!"

Greg replied, "There's no signal to trace. It's underground. A lot of people believe it was just a virus."

"We know it wasn't," John spoke up. Everyone looked up to hear what the silent man had to say. "Some psychopath is out there, planning something, and we have to find out what that is before that little sh*t has his way, again." He spoke calmly, but everyone in the group could tell that he was choking down a scream.

"He could be hiding, holding out, until people forget," Donovan said, "The man could be in a cave, somewhere, buying time."

It was rare of Agent Donovan to speak up without having a burning insult for Sherlock. John realized that she had a point, but would never admit it. Instead, he gave a slight nod of approval. John, Anderson, and Donovan turned to Lestrade for guidance. All but Sherlock, who paced along the wall.

Gregory Lestrade spoke up, "Where could he hide?"

Everyone in the room knew the answer, but it was Sherlock who spoke up: "Where could he not hide? How many spider holes does the man have? How many contacts? How many identities?"

All this was said with closed eyes, as if he was researching the answers on screens within his eyelids.

Silence hovered in the air for what seemed like hours, as everyone stared at their shoes. The clock claimed that only five minutes had passed.

"I need coffee," Anderson muttered, and back stepped out of the room.

"I have paperwork," claimed Donovan, after a couple minutes, and she too backed out of Greg's office.

"Well then," Greg spoke up. "We can't solve this just by standing here."

John grunted approval and turned to his friend. Sherlock was now standing with his back to the corner. Something told John that Sherlock had flipped a switch in his mind, and the sleuth nodded to Greg and walked out, leaving John and the inspector.

"How's he doing?" Lestrade asked.

"Not good," John replied, "but he won't show it."

Greg nodded in understanding. John turned and walked out, hoping to talk some sense into Sherlock. Only once he got to the lobby, Sherlock was gone. John was worried, but he believed that Sherlock could take care of himself. He certainly needed some time alone. They both did.

Doctor Watson hailed a cab and headed home.

Locked out? Of his own home office? What was Mary doing?

"Mary?" John knocked on the door. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," called a voice back. At least she was okay. To be honest, having a pregnant wife and chasing criminals on the side was a questionable life, but John loved it. He had grown to be a little overprotective with Mary, but that was normal, right?

"Do you need help?" he called.

A man's voice called back, "John, stop worrying. I just need to ask Mary some questions."

"_Sherlock?!_"

"Who else?" he called back.

John was so confused. "Why are you locked in my office, asking my wife questions?"

"Because we know you won't like the questions," Mary called back.

"Why not?" John was concerned and laying against the door. Seconds passed.

"They're about the old me," his wife called back, softly. John's spine felt like pins and needles.

"Okay," he stated, and walked away. Christmas was not far back, and the subject of whatever was on that flashdrive was not easy to think about. It was better if he just ignored and walked away. It was actually a little touching that they had locked the door. He certainly didn't want to walk in and have them discussing the old Mary. John had fought any spark of curiosity that wanted to blame Mary for anything in the past.

John just went and sat in the living room. This meeting would just have to be waited out, but what could Sherlock possibly learn from Mary that would help with the search for Moriarty?


	6. Chapter 6

Mumbles. That's all John heard, as his eyes cracked open. With a glance over to his office door, John saw that it was open. How long had it been? With a grunt, John pushed himself up, off the chair and moved to the kitchen.

"Hello, there," said Mary, with a sense of welcome in her voice.

"How'd it go?"

Mary knew what her husband was speaking of.

"Good," she muttered, taking a sip of tea. She seemed to be trying to change the subject. Neither of them wanted to talk about the meeting in the office.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, still waking up.

"I don't know. He seemed to have all the information he needed, thanked me, and left. He was going to wake you, but decided not to."

The doctor thought this was a little touching, but quickly grew concerned for his friend. Mary saw this on John's face.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Who knows where he could have gone?" John asked, grabbing his jacket. "All morning, he was snapping in and out of a daze. Now, he's searching for a psychopath who's aimed at killing him."

"Sounds like a normal day to me," Mary said with a snort, trying to keep the mood light.

With a chuckle and a peck on Mary's cheek, John left and went on yet another search for Sherlock.

It didn't take long to find the detective. He was in the flat, scrolling through something on the laptop. Sherlock didn't acknowledge his friend when he walked in.

John spoke up, "What are you looking for?"

Seconds passed before Sherlock spoke up, "Anything."

Nothing else was said. John supposed that that was enough information, given the current circumstances. John checked his watch. It was almost 7:00pm.

"Do you want to go get something to eat?" he asked.

"No."

Not again.

"Sherlock, you have to eat." John hoped his nudging tone got his message across: _You haven't eaten all day._

"I'll find something," stated Sherlock. Through all this, his eyes did not leave the screen.

The doctor trusted his friend, but made a mental note to keep an eye on Sherlock. Though he was a genius, Sherlock could forget to take care of himself. John would pelt the man with grapes if he had to.

The next day, two days after the message on all the screens, John had to work at the clinic. Though he was working and seeing patients, every hour, he would send an email to Sherlock, asking if he was okay or found anything. The second question only came up twice. John didn't want Sherlock to feel rushed, even though he kinda was. That pressure could make Sherlock even more careless.

There were no responses to the emails at the end of the day, so of course, John had to go by 221B and check on Sherlock.

Minutes later, the door opened and John's eyes widened. At the desk, sat Sherlock. He sat in the same position as 24 hours earlier.

"Oh my gosh!" spoke up John, trying to finally gain Sherlock's full attention. There was no response, so he walked closer. "Have you even moved? _Sherlock!_"

Over Sherlock's shoulder, John could see that the computer was still scrolling through search results. Not being able to take it any longer, John reached out and shut the computer. Sherlock simply pulled back his hands in retreat.

"Oh," he said innocently, "Hello, John."

"Oh," John said, mockingly, "Hello, Sherlock. Have you been sitting here since yesterday?"

"No," Sherlock replied, "Only since you left."

Shocked and sick of Sherlock's cluelessness, marched over to the window and yanked back the curtain, letting in streams of orange light from the setting sun.

"I. Left. _Yesterday_." John spoke, holding back a gushing river of frustration and anger. How could his best friend care so little? How was he still going?

"Oh."

Sherlock simply stood. The already tall man stretched to where he almost touched the ceiling, then clapped John on the shoulder, like he acknowledged his friend's sympathy. Without a word, Sherlock walked over to the couch and laid down in the familiar praying position. _Was he seriously going into his Mind Palace, again?_

John knew that Sherlock was pushing himself to his final limits. It was one thing for Sherlock to come back, but Moriarty? How could he? His blood was splashed across the concrete. His skull was shot to pieces on the roof of that building...hospital...height...falling...cries...falling..._crack_...pain...loss…

No. He had to snap out of it.

While Sherlock seemed to be distracted, John picked up the laptop and placed it on the shelf. This wouldn't hide it for long, but hopefully Sherlock wouldn't care to look.

"I'll come over tomorrow," John said to Sherlock's concentrating form, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice or acknowledge the remark.

The doctor just shrugged his shoulders and left. Maybe the next day would hold some evidence.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had been a little confused after the scene in Molly's lab. It had hurt him to see John so concerned, but Moriarty had to be stopped, no matter what emotions may be a result. Lestrade had been no help whatsoever and Sherlock needed evidence. With the whole world swimming in hashtags and captions, you would think that someone would know something, but 'no'. Though Sherlock was glued to the screen for almost 24 hours, his search had not been fruitful. The only thing he could do after John left was look for Moriarty, but even that held no results. His Mind Palace was bare. The detective had wandered in a dessert for a month and still could not find Jim. The California redwoods had been climbed and ancient ruins scoured. Out of all Sherlock's mind, the criminal was nowhere. He could hide in any book, article, or day. Sherlock would have to virtually relive his life to find one man.

How had Sherlock let him escape? It was the panic, the fear, that broke the shackles. A search was taking place in both reality and the subconscious, for if Jim wreaked havoc in Sherlock's mind, Sherlock would not be able to catch him in reality.

At around noon the day after John left, something in Sherlock's brain snapped him to reality. He sat up on the couch and walked to the kitchen. Naturally, on a case, Sherlock's appetite was gone. If Lestrade had no evidence for Sherlock to go off of, he would have to get his own.

The sleuth grabbed the black coat and headed out the door.

"Where are you headed, Sherlock?" called after him.

"Bart's. Case," was all Sherlock said before heading outside. Right away, the sun was blinding. High noon after 24 hours of concentration was like stepping on a tack, getting out of bed. The honks and motor sounds of cars zooming by caused pain to erupt in Sherlock's temples, but he forged ahead. He hailed a cab and climbed in, directing the driver to St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

"Hello, Molly. Call John for me, would you?"

"Sher-. What are you-?" she stuttered after Sherlock. He had just landed the elevator on her floor, said "hello", then closed the doors again. That man had the strangest habits.

Of course, she had to call John. If Sherlock was in that much of a hurry, something had to be up. Besides, he looked pretty happy, considering what had recently been happening.

She dialed. The phone rang.

"Hello?" said the voice on the other line.

"Hi, John. It's Molly."

"Hi, Molly. What's happening?"

"Uh, Sherlock just popped in the lab and said to call you. He seemed pretty good and in a hurry. I think he was going to one of the top floors."

"...Oh...Okay, thanks," John stuttered. "I'll be there soon."

"Okay. See you, I guess," Molly concluded.

"Bye," John hung up.

Sherlock stood on the roof of the hospital...again. This didn't bring good memories, but it had to be done. John should have been on his way. Until then, Sherlock had some thinking to do.

Oh God. Sherlock was on the roof again. John knew it. No cab was fast enough and the elevator was slow, as always.

Coming out onto the roof, John ran around to the other side of the elevator. There stood Sherlock, observing the platforms.

"Sherlock. Wha-"

"John! Hi! So, I stood here," Sherlock said happily, as he moved to the right, "And he stood here," he said twisting around to the left.

Oh no. Sherlock wasn't describing this. Not like this. John never wanted to know what happened up there. That was between Sherlock and Moriarty. His heart began to race, as his legs grew stiff.

"We had a conversation," Sherlock continued, "Then…well... here."

In a split second, Sherlock leaned over, grabbed John's gun from his waistband, and had it pointed at his face!

"Sherlock!" John leaned forward, but hesitated out of fear of setting his friend off.

Sherlock continued, "He threatened you, I showed him how I was in control, then..._POW!"_

John flinched as his friend mimicked the motion of a gunshot. No blood was present, but Sherlock laid on his back, clearly getting into character as Jim Moriarty.

"So," Sherlock said, "How did he do it?"

John was breathing heavy. This was too much. He may have needed stress, but not this much.

Sherlock lay on the cold cement, staring at the sky. He had to recreate the scene, no matter how much it hurt. Quickly, he jumped up and ran to the edge. Behind him, he could feel John lurch forward and try to catch him, but Sherlock carried on.

The detective looked over the city and soaked in the familiar view. He looked over his shoulder and saw himself from a minute ago laying on the ground. It would help him to project himself from his memories into reality. Sherlock swayed, and his memory image flickered.

John was by his side now. Sherlock pulled himself together and focussed on the scene.

He asked, "How could Moriarty have moved from where he was? When did I look back?"

John responded, "Jim couldn't have moved. He was shot."

"And my head was smashed in!" Sherlock responded, frustrated. He could see John flinch and lean away at that response, but he wasn't concentrating. His next response was calmer:

"If he wasn't shot, where could he move?"

John was slow to respond. "To the other roof," he suggested, "or to the next building over.

"Humph." Sherlock made this noise with sense of thought in it. "What was I doing?"

Sherlock stepped up onto the edge. The all-too familiar feeling was gut-lurching. His throat was dry; finally reacting to his thirst. The town spun around him. Buildings far away seemed close and vice versa. He could feel himself leaning back and forth. Sherlock's line of vision grew dark on the edges and the sky seemed more grey than normal.

"Where was I… John…," he muttered. Then fell.

Why was he on the edge? John wanted to know. Could this whole setup not be recreated using blocks or diagrams? No. Of course not. Sherlock needed to risk his life for the case and nothing less. It was a sick truth, but John knew it true.

The first visual sign of Sherlock's distress was the swaying. Then, his friend's speech grew quieter.

"...John," he had said. Then leaned forward.

Luckily, John was prepared. He wasn't about to lose his friend off this roof, again. With a lurching pain in his chest(probably from panic), John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm. He pulled him back, only to catch his limp body.

Sherlock's eyes were rolled back into his head and long legs were turned in weird angles. John sank to his knees and let out the biggest breath. He had been so close to seeing Sherlock fall again. Only this time, it would be permanent.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock woke to the beeping of a heart monitor and the stench of bleach and hand sanitizer. Hospital. Of course. At least his second trip up to that roof had ended here and not with him getting tortured in Russia… or what John thought had happened. Sherlock's eyelids were heavy and kind of stuck together. How long had he been out?

He peeked out of one eye. There sat John, reading some crap magazine that had obviously been left in the room for people waiting.

"John," Sherlock croaked in a 'hello' fashion. His friend looked up, surprised. John closed the magazine and sat it down.

"Sherlock," John said back, also in a 'hello' fashion. Worry clouded his eyes, though. He probably had so many questions.

"What happened?" the patient asked groggily.

"I could ask you the same thing," John said seriously. All Sherlock did was raise an eyebrow in confusion. John sighed.

"Exhaustion. Malnutrition. Dehydration. Why?" It was rhetorical. "Because Sherlock Holmes couldn't eat a damn sandwich or have a glass of water."

There was no response from Sherlock. How could he explain? He didn't need food or drink or sleep, as long as he had a case.

"The case-" Sherlock started.

"The case?!" John said, almost amused, but calmed down, "The case will always still be there when you wake up, Sherlock. You don't have to torture yourself."

"I don't feel it."

"I'm sorry you don't feel it, because we all see it," John said, "We all have to sit there and watch you drive yourself mad, thirsty, and hungry, because you care about 'the case' more than yourself." He sat back in the chair and sighed. "You need to stop."

"I'm sorry, you know," Sherlock said, meekly.

John nodded. "I believe you."

The men sat in silence for what seemed like forever, but Sherlock saw ten minutes, forty seconds go by on the wall clock.

John spoke up first, "We will find Moriarty, you know. Or whatever sick bastard this is."

Sherlock simply nodded, but it was enough.

"So," he said, trying to break the ice, "How's Mary?"

"Ah," John responded with a smile and slight chuckle to his voice, "the million dollar question."

As the conversation took a positive turn, Sherlock knew that John was right. They would find Moriarty and they would do it together. Until then, the two friends would carry on and wait for the day when Jim was finally gone.

That night, Sherlock had to do one final check. Down the spiral stairs he went, to the padded room. To his relief, there sat Jim Moriarty in his rightful place. Chained and controlled. Crazy but contained.

Sherlock could climb the stairs in confidence. As the city of London quieted in reality, Sherlock's sleeping subconscious took him to the room with the golden doors. He spent that dream-filled night with his loved ones, knowing Jim could be stopped. Finally.

The End.


End file.
